Her feet were bare.
At first they thought she hadn’t any shoes; she was dressed in a tiny slip of a thing that could have been a dress, could have been a nightgown, with bare legs and no underwear, and had clearly been dragged across the wet grass. Their first thought had been a fight turned ugly at home. There were too many cases like those – hospitalisations and much worse just because some guy couldn’t keep his temper under control. So it would make sense if there were no shoes.
A search was ordered anyway. I circled the area round the trees, glancing my torch off of roots and unopened flower heads. My heart sank as I heard the calls from behind me; someone had found a pair of tights, almost disintegrated in the wet grass; then a pair of bloodied knickers, a scattering of objects obviously from a spilled handbag. And then I saw them: a pale blue to match the silvery fabric she wore, heels almost two inches high, both unbroken, sitting innocently in the grass as if someone had placed them deliberately.
(Another quick passage written before our food arrived in Nando’s. I spent two minutes staring at my boyfriend as he scribbled away while I was totally stuck for ideas, and then wrote this in another two minutes and it ended up being twice as long as his even though we ended at the same time)